


Like We Were

by Idday



Series: Redux [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Jack-Centric, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack thinks there should be a word for this, for when you fall in love with the same person a second time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like We Were

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon-compliant future AU with endgame Jack/Kent (meaning there is a super brief reference to Eric and Jack having been together but breaking up). If this isn't your thing, no hard feelings about you turning back now. 
> 
> Vague references to Jack's overdose and the epikegster meeting.
> 
> Jack and Kent: a series of non-linear moments.
> 
> (Title from Adele's "When We Were Young")

Kent buys him dinner, after the Aces lose at home. The last game, the Falconers lost, and Jack was selfishly too upset by that to meet Kent afterwards, though Kent had asked.

Kent doesn’t seem too bothered tonight, though maybe it’s just because he’d won the second star, even though his team lost. When Jack asks, Kent just laughs, and says, “Eighty-two games a season, Zimms, nobody can win them all.”

Kent had never handled loss so well, before.

He chooses an expensive bottle of wine, and Jack’s menu doesn’t even have prices on it. Kent seems comfortable in a place like this, in his game day suit, but the last time Jack had seen him like this had been in an all-night diner at three in the morning when Kent was a little drunk and wearing Jack’s shirt and kept nudging his ankles under the table.

Now, Kent’s perfectly put together, a little quiet. There are candles on the table, but the slant of his fond smile when Jack asks after his sister is the same as it always was. Kent’s a perfect stranger and he’s Jack’s best friend, all in the same moment.

Jack suddenly has the urge to take a picture of him, to capture him in this moment: head bowed, long fingers tapping at the stem of his wine glass, dim light catching his golden eyelashes. It’s a Kent that Jack used to see dividing a helping of poutine with him after a hard practice, not the media personality Kent slips into for the cameras or the battle-hardened persona he wears on ice.

 _His_ Kent.

He’s suddenly seventeen again and Kent’s got the same freckles across the bridge of his nose, the same cowlick he can’t ever tame, and when he looks at Jack, his eyes are the same stormy grey that only ever looked truly blue when Kent was in his Rimouski sweater, Jack at his side.

Jack knows what’s on the chain around his neck—the Saint Christopher medallion Kent’s worn since his mother gave it to him before the Q draft, though Kent hasn’t been to confession since he was twelve. He knows just where the patches of freckles on his shoulder are that Jack used to trace into constellations. He knows the look Kent used to wear when he was struggling to learn French in Quebec, that it’s the same look he wears right before he masters a tough play, and how stupid Kent had always felt struggling to communicate with his coaches in a foreign language. He knows how smart Kent really is, how he could understand the physics of hockey—velocity of pucks and angles of passes—without ever really trying.

And Kent knows him too, Jack thinks. Knows that Jack still misses being able to go to Tim Horton’s whenever he wants, knows how long the shadow his father casts still is. He knows where to find Jack’s stretch marks, over his stomach and thighs, because he used to lie with his head in Jack’s lap and kiss them. Kent met his childhood dog and played shinny on the pond of Jack’s childhood home and has seen Jack at all the lowest points of his life and still came back for him years later. He knows how hard it is for Jack to find his words, sometimes, and once he had understood Jack’s particular blend of body language and English and silence and Quebecois better even than Jack’s own mother.

Jack always used to be able to hurt him so easily because he knew where Kent was softest, and Kent could return the favor in a second—could hit Jack right in his inadequacies just like Jack could prey on Kent’s.

But now, Jack thinks, now he knows where to shield Kent from the world.

He nudges Kent’s ankle under the table, and Kent gives him that same bright smile he always used to.

…

(They used to argue about money, as much as they argued about anything else. This was mostly because Jack never thought about it, and because Kent always had to.

Jack never truly understood why Kent could be so prickly about buying Jack’s coffee as often as Jack bought his until he visited Kent at home for the first time.

It was Mrs. Parson’s idea, like she felt bad that Kent had stayed with Jack and his parents over so many long weekends when the trip to New York was too long, or too expensive. She was the one who invited Jack, and Kent had clenched his fists when Jack had said yes, he’d come for the first few days of their Christmas break.

They drove, and Jack only figured afterwards that it was because Kent couldn’t afford a plane ticket. The first day, they made it to Montreal and stayed with Jack’s parents, and Kent was a frequent enough visitor that one of the guest rooms was his, and had been for the past year, though he’d spent most of that time sneaking down the hall to Jack’s room once the Zimmermanns were asleep. Jack’s father opened a bottle of vintage wine, and his mother talked about a charity event she was going to attend the next day, about the designer who had donated her dress for the function.

The next morning, Jack drove them out of Montreal, and they switched at the border. Kent had been tenser as they neared Buffalo, and by the time he parked outside of a small house on a quiet residential street, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “This is it,” he had gritted out, and took Jack’s bag for him.

The house was cozy, if tight, but Jack had liked the way it felt like a home—shoes by the door, a half finished mug of coffee on the counter, a throw blanket on one end of the couch like someone had just been using it. “Mom and Jess are still out,” Kent had said, and added, looking embarrassed, “I know it’s not much.”

Jack had realized abruptly how stark it must have seemed to Kent—staying at the Zimmermann’s place, a distinguished mansion with a pond for skating in the backyard, and then bringing Jack here to a house that would barely fit the four or them on a street with houses that looked just like it, and Jack thought maybe he should say something reassuring, but couldn’t think of a thing.

Kent gave him the tour—two bedrooms, a bathroom, the living room and kitchen. “I used to share with my sister,” he admitted, “But we’ll have to sleep in the living room.”

Jack had smiled at the way that Kent was still in the house, though he’d moved away nearly four years earlier—the pictures of him his mom had hung up on the wall, a framed Rimouski jersey, the pucks that had bounced out of the closet when Kent had hung his jacket up there.

“I like it,” Jack said.

The Parson’s hadn’t had a gaming system, so Kent took him out to play ball hockey in the street, ignoring the drifts plows had pushed onto the sidewalks. Kent was always happier playing hockey, and Jack was glad to see him relax a little, laugh brightly when he scored on Jack.

 _So this is the place that made you,_ Jack had thought, and being allowed there made him warm.)

…

Kent only asks him about Eric once, and all Jack tells him is that the distance was too hard, that they wanted different things, in the end. It’s the truth, just maybe not the whole truth.

Somedays, the truth just feels like the universe, determined to bring Kent to him time and time again.

…

“My mom says I need to pick a charity to donate to,” Jack grumbles over the phone, and Kent laughs at him.

“You haven’t donated anything to charity yet? Slacker.”

“I _want_ to donate, obviously,” Jack says, “She means I need to… pick one to put my name to, you know? One to sponsor.”

“Okay,” Kent says, “I don’t understand the problem.”

“I don’t know which to choose,” Jack grouses. He has about twenty tabs open on his computer, researching different options his agent had suggested. “How did you pick?”

“You gotta pick something that’s meaningful to you,” Kent says, “Like, I donate to some groups who buy underprivileged kids hockey gear so they can keep playing.”

Jack knows how expensive hockey is, obviously. He knows there are kids who don’t play because they can’t afford to. He just forgets, sometimes, that Kent Parson, a bonafide millionaire, was one of those kids once. When Kent had first moved away from home, at fourteen, his mom had picked up a second job to help cover expenses, Kent had confided guiltily in him once, told him that his mom never had money for anything besides bills and food and hockey. The first thing Kent did with his first NHL paycheck was pay the mortgage on a nicer house for his mom and sister.

“I also donate to some LGBT centers around,” Kent continues, and Jack blinks back to the present moment. “Just pick something you actually care about, cause you’re gonna have your face on it.”

“Sure,” Jack says, but then he has to leave for practice, and he still doesn’t have a good idea of what to pick.

A week later, he emails his agent, tells him he wants to choose a local rehab center that focuses on teens and young adults.

A local reporter writes a puff piece on it, which he only finds out when Kent texts him the article along with a thumbs up emoji.

…

(Kent hadn’t been scared for the draft like Jack, even excepting Jack’s anxiety.

Kent had needed it like Jack hadn’t, needed the career as much as he loved to play hockey.

But Jack needed the first pick spot like Kent couldn’t have understood, and Kent never seemed to resent him for that as much as Jack might have, in his place. It was Kent who threw away newspapers before Jack could see them, would only show him the good articles. He had worked hard to keep Jack distracted and happy, that last month.

Kent had been excited to go to New York, to be close to his family for the first time in years, and later, Jack felt guilty for screwing that up, too.

He’d only ever minded when the media had tried to play them against each other, had painted them as rivals.

Jack’s first game on NHL ice, Kent tells reporters who ask him that Jack is one of the best players Kent’s ever known, and that he’s excited to play with him again.

When Jack’s asked the same question, he just says, “I’m only focused on my own game. What Parson’s doing won’t impact me until we play each other in November.”

He texts Kent to tell him not to watch the interview.)

…

“Do you ever think about religion?” Jack asks him one night when they’re tangled up naked together, and Kent looks at him like he’s speaking Norwegian.

“Not really,” he says, and Jack reaches up to stroke over Kent’s St. Christopher’s medallion. They’re both Catholic by upbringing, but lapsed—Kent hasn’t been to church since long before he moved away from home the first time, and Jack only goes to mass anymore when his paternal grandparents come to visit.

“Do you mean like… as a gay dude, do I think about religion?” Kent tries to clarify, and Jack shrugs.

“I guess,” he sighs, and kisses Kent before he can answer.

He still prays, sometimes, but mostly because he finds it soothing to say the words over, because it can get him into the same headspace as practicing a drill can. He likes to say an Ave Maria, in French, when he’s feeling overwhelmed.

“I’d rather think about you,” Kent says, and pulls him back in.

(When Kent says his name, it sounds like a prayer, like a hymn, like something holy.)

…

(Jack’s first year in the league, they’d met at the NHL awards. Kent was there as a Stanley Cup and Conn Smythe winner, had just clinched the Art Ross, was a heavy favorite for the Lindsey and Hart, too.

Jack had had a perfectly respectable season, just not an award winning one. He was mostly there because Tater had asked him to come.

Tater had tried to introduce them—“Zimmboni! You know Kent? He play with me rookie year before I am being traded to Falconers. Kent, Jack is rookie this year!”

Kent was going to let him set the tone, Jack could see. He could have pulled him into a hug, said, “Kenny, it’s been too long.”

Even a nod, and, “Yeah, hey Parse, great season, man.”

Instead, Jack reached his hand out to shake. “Hi, Kent,” he had said, and that was all.

When Kent accepted his third award of the night, he gave a speech thanking all of his teammates, past and present.

Jack had swallowed, hard.)

…

They speak French, sometimes. Kent’s had never been perfect and it’s rusty now, but he did live in Quebec for two years, and despite what he’d always thought about himself, he’s smart, had picked it up quickly. Jack likes using the language, hearing the language—it’s comforting to him, it takes him back to his childhood. Even hearing Kent’s accent brings back memories for him, and these days, they’re mostly good.

…

(When Jack had kissed him at the Haus, it had made him raw.

When he tries it again, two years later, it’s every time Kent’s smiled, every goal horn Jack’s ever heard, every time Kent had turned up the radio in his car on those long drives back to Montreal, it’s that time Kent punched a guy in the face for him and the time they hoisted the Memorial Cup together, and it’s… it’s every single one of those thirty-four days.)

…

The first time Jack spends the night, it’s after a game in Vegas and he’s just going to use the guest room, too late and a little too drunk to want to find his way back to the hotel.

He’s still in his game day suit, and Kent tells him he can borrow a t-shirt before ducking into the bathroom.

Jack slides open the drawers in Kent’s dresser until he finds one filled with neatly folded shirts, and freezes, when he sees the familiar shade of red, a Samwell jersey with a C on the chest.

He unfolds it with shaking hands—one of his jerseys from sophomore year, the first he was captain. It’s been worn and washed enough times that it’s no longer stiff in his hands.

He’s still holding it when Kent emerges from the bathroom, face wet and changed into a t-shirt of his own.

They stare at each other for a moment, and Kent flushes bright red, freckles standing out in relief.

(He’d worn one of Jack’s Oceanic jerseys once, one of their first times together, and Jack had asked Kent to ride him. A few days later, he’d come back to the room they shared on the road to find Kent napping in the same jersey and had woken him and furiously demanded he take it off. They all left their doors propped open, then, and the boys would come and go as they pleased, and Jack thinks that was the first moment Kent realized how scared Jack was of someone finding out.)

“I…” Kent stutters, and Jack folds it back up, carefully. He doesn’t know what it means, exactly, except that the jersey is well-loved, like something Kent finds precious, and he doesn’t want to destroy that again.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, and a week later when he’s back in Providence, he sends Kent one of his current jerseys and a Falconers snapback before he can talk himself out of it.

Kent’s wearing the hat in his next Instagram photo.

…

(Kent had been Jack’s first everything.  Not just the sex—although before Kent, Jack had only kissed one girl.

Kent was the first person to make Jack blush from across the room. The first to hold his hand. The first to fight with Jack, the first to fight for him.

Kent was the first person to tell Jack he was beautiful, the first to allow Jack to fall asleep in his arms.

Kent was the first person to find Jack in the bathroom that night, and the first person that Jack cut out of his life afterwards.

Kent was the first person whose heart Jack ever broke.

Kent was the first person to come back for Jack, time and time again.

It’s Jack’s turn to do a little chasing, he thinks.)

…

Jack sees him across the room at the All Star Game. He’s deep in conversation with some of Jack’s childhood icons, but all Jack can see is the way Kent looks when he throws his head back and laughs.

He aches to go to him.

(The first time Kent had spent a holiday at Jack’s house, he was too star-struck to talk to any of Bob’s guests, and mortified because of it. Jack had dragged him into the bathroom and kissed him silly, and then they had passed back and forth a pilfered bottle of merlot until Kent was loose enough to make conversation over dinner.

Mario had shaken Kent’s hand when he left, and Kent hadn’t even trembled, and when Mario had hugged Jack goodbye, he’d said, “That kid is going places.”

Now it’s Kent, who introduces Jack around to the league superstars. Jack doesn’t mind as much as he once might have.)

They get a little drunk together that night and stake out a booth in the back of the bar. Other players roam in and out, striking up conversations and moving on just as quickly, but Kent is a constant, staying by Jack’s side and laughingly bribing other guys to bring him more drinks. Nobody says anything about the way they list into each other as the night goes on—they all know that Jack and Kent go way back.

It’s always been unwritten, that whatever happens in juniors stays there, and Jack knows that more than a few guys in this room had their own Kent, once.

It’s just that Jack is planning on keeping his.

…

He starts to take pictures of Kent, when they get to spend time together, because it’s not often.

But here, Kent still asleep in bed, naked except for his gold chain.

Here, sipping a cup of coffee in one of Jack’s sweatshirts.

Here, just a shot of the way Kent’s feet are tucked under Jack’s thighs on the couch.

Once, Kent lets him take a whole roll of Kent slipping out of his clothes and onto Jack’s lap.

The way Kent’s pink mouth looks, lax with sleep, after he’s brought Jack off with it; the way he holds Kit in one arm like an infant; the furrow in his brow as he watches game tape.

The soft look he wears when he looks at Jack, over and over.

These are the parts of Kent that Jack holds close to himself, when he can’t keep him for real.

(If he had to title the collection, it might be a word that means home, or something close to comfort, or childhood, or that special brand of yearning for a lover far away. He doesn’t think there’s a word for that, besides Kent.)

…

Sometimes, Kent still dreams of Jack in that bathroom.

Jack knows this because Kent still talks in his sleep, after all these years.

When he wakes, afterwards, or when Jack wakes him so he’s not seeing it anymore, Kent trembles, cards one hand through Jack’s hair and holds on until Jack’s neck is wet with his tears.

Jack doesn’t ask him what he’s thinking about. He cradles Kent until he can feel small in Jack’s arms again, and they fall back asleep together.

…

“I’m sorry it couldn’t last, the first time,” Jack says one night, trailing a hand over every part of him that he can reach.

“I’m not,” Kent says, and sighs. “We were… we weren’t ready. I needed to prove I could do it on my own, you needed to take your time, to go to school, to get better. We were too mean for each other, then.”

Jack kisses him, and says, “But not now,” and Kent agrees, “But not now.”

It’s the first time Jack’s sure, truly, that it’s going to work.

…

Jack thinks there should be a word for this, for when you fall in love with the same person a second time.

 


End file.
